


my dear friend

by liveyourtemptation



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, from mutual assholes to boyfriends, hartley tries to deal with his life, let's face it hartley is an art hoe, lots of pining, once again: dreams, random supergirl characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liveyourtemptation/pseuds/liveyourtemptation
Summary: Rattle around in my dreams why don’t you/ Whisper things in secret code/ You’re walking in my sleep like there is/ Something that you need to know/ I know you know I know





	my dear friend

**Author's Note:**

> set somewhere at the end of season 3 but doesn't adhere to canon. idk just don't think about it too much! maybe i shouldn't write supergirl characters when i have never watched one episode of that show but whatevs. pls do excuse if they are horribly ooc. plus you cannot tell me that cisco 'aesthetics' ramon didn't take product design classes in college.
> 
> warnings for irreality and a mental breakdown i guess. the name of the painting is 'my dear friend' if you want to look it up.
> 
> inspiration is [I Know You Know by Charming Disasters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnhekMuOAeU).

It's a memory. One of those moments where they had actually gotten along, in the way they did from time to time. Where their arguments had a playful touch, where Cisco grinned challenging and Hartley didn't resort to insults.

 

Hartley knows that this is a memory even though it takes him a while to realize he is dreaming.

 

“We all agree it looks awful,” Hartley says loudly, cutting through the noise of the bar.

 

“We? Agree?” Ronnie laughs, beer in one hand, the other edging over the backrest of Caitlin's chair.

 

“Okay,” Hartley gives in. “I think it looks awful.” They are fighting about the design of - - of something. He is making his way into his second beer and in the moment he knew what he was talking about but his memory is hazy and looking back he can't quite remember.

 

“And since when do you know anything about product design?” Cisco asks, sitting next to him. “Please stay in your lane. Which is theoretic physics if I'm not mistaken.”

 

“I'd stay in my lane if you'd do your job,” Hartley retorts but the irritation that usually rises when Cisco talks doesn't come, or rather it's a different kind of irritation; it still makes him want to push back to see how far Cisco will keep his stand, but it's a different game, different rules.

 

Cisco smiles. Hartley doesn't remember if Cisco was involved with the project he is criticizing at all. But he proceeds to explain why the design makes sense for the user and how it fits into STAR Labs brand design. Hartley can't counter any of Cisco's arguments except for insisting that he doesn't like the look. But that would feel like a defeat.

 

“I think you actually shut him up,” Caitlin says, giggling into her mojito.

 

Hartley shakes his head at Cisco's widening grin.

 

“You know I went to school for this,” Cisco says.

 

“I'm aware,” Hartley says. “Sometimes you even act like it.”

 

He feels himself drifting dangerously close to kindness. If this is a game he is losing. And Cisco seems to be at least marginally aware of it but keeps playing, keeps dragging out the end.

 

There is another STAR Labs employee, their co-worker at the table, his face and identity lost in time and Hartley's brain, who takes over the conversation, telling some story. Hartley doesn't hear it because Cisco leans over to him, eyes full of intent.

 

“When are you finally going to admit that I'm just as smart as you?”

 

When my pride allows it, Hartley thinks. The others pay their conversation no mind. Hartley looks at Cisco's smug expression and thinks that the only way to win this round would be drastic action. There he thinks about kissing Cisco for the first time; just to see how he would react, to throw him off balance, to see how far he could cross the lines Cisco keeps drawing around him.

 

Cisco must sense his hesitance but instead of going in like Hartley would have done, like Cisco would have done if this would be their normal dance routine, he goes still, a wistful glint in his eyes.

 

“You know I figured you out, Hartley.”

 

“I - -” Hartley blinks. “Are you that bored? Should I give you more work?” The thought that Cisco thought about him, tried to figure him out rubs him in a way he is not sure he likes.

 

Cisco ignores his tone, faces him with his whole body and Hartley realizes that he is preparing to strike. Hartley doesn't know how much Cisco's hobby psychology should scare him.

 

At this point he realizes he is dreaming, somewhere distant in the back of his mind the fact gets revealed but he can't do anything with this information. There is just the slightest hint of dread as he anticipates Cisco's next words.

 

“I truly do believe you're a little bitch,” Cisco says, “And your dickishness doesn't come from insecurity, at least not mostly. But I think you do try to keep people at arms length.”

 

Hartley stares at him, alcohol-dazed mind trying to find an appropriate way to react. Cisco takes it as his cue to continue.

 

“I mean look at you now,” He says and waves at the air around Hartley. “Being at least fifty percent nicer, making conversation, enjoying yourself. It's possible. But apparently you don't want that. The reason for that honestly evades me,” Cisco says, rolling his eyes and turning back to his beer. “Maybe to punish yourself.”

 

Hartley is glad that Cisco is already looking away. He took most of Cisco's assumptions with grace, but that last half-sentence reacts with something in Hartley like explosive chemicals. He wants to scream at Cisco, wants to push him out of his chair and get violent. It's not true. Hartley got punished enough, he doesn't need to inflict more of it on himself. Who does Cisco even think he is. He has known Hartley for barely a year, they're not even friends, how can he dare say things like that.

 

At that point Hartley is still able to reign in the anger. He claps his hands together a few times, the most obnoxious smirk plastered over his face. “Wow. No really, congratulations, Cisco. You figured me out.”

 

“Am I really that wrong?” Cisco asks.

 

“You don't know shit about me,” Hartley says, exchanging sarcasm with something cooler.

 

“My point,” Cisco says, and then the dream spirals out, tumbles out of Hartley's reach until he slowly wakes up in another city, a couple of years after that conversation. He hadn't thought about that moment for ages. He wonders if there might be some truth to Cisco's words after all.

 

The thing is. This is not the first time Hartley dreamed about Cisco. He can't really pin down where it began. Cisco had started mingling with Hartley's dream crowd, showed up every night and then, mostly in the background, observing, and Hartley thought nothing of it. Until the one dream that changed everything.

 

He woke up coated in a sheen of sweat and aching hard, remembering not much more than movement and touch and pleasure. And he remembered crying out Cisco's name in that dream. He had taken the longest cold shower of his life then, refusing to get off on fantasies of Cisco Ramon. That wasn't going to happen.

 

It was already happening.

 

The dreams hadn't stopped after that; kept being a semi-regular occurrence. Most of them innocent; memories or conversations. But not all of them.

 

It's kind of ruining Hartley's life. Or whatever is left of it anyway. It's been over a year since that final dinner with his parents where he had told them that they were never going to see him again, or their money, and then left Central City for good. At least that had been his plan. He had been on okay terms with Team Flash but it hadn't been enough to keep him around. So he turned his back on the city that had propped him up just to tear him down again.

 

He could have gone anywhere but somehow he ended up in National City. Maybe nostalgia won over, after all he had spend many childhood summers in a youth camp in the area. And a two days drive seemed like a reasonable distance to Central City. Far enough away not to succumb to late night craziness but still close enough to - - to what? Something still kept him close, like a tether.

 

L-Corp was hiring so he took the job no matter what rumors said. He had his fair share of working at shady organizations but still – the shady organizations had all the good equipment and interesting projects. And after all Hartley had never been the one with untouchable morals like _some_ people. To be fair, as far as Hartley could judge after working there for over a year the company seemed to be out of its darker days.

 

After dreaming about Cisco telling him that he thinks Hartley wants to punish himself work seems undoable. Hartley lies in his bed, arm thrown over his face and ponders how he deserves any of this. He drags himself out of bed in the end instead of calling in sick. He guesses he can just squander away the day at his desk. He makes his way past a coffee shop and gets the sweetest drink they have plus a piece of cake. He almost whips out his phone to shoot Cisco a picture and tell him: See how I'm treating myself. No self-punishment here. But that's a silly idea.

 

Honestly it's a dangerous idea. It's the first symptom of the virus that has infected Hartley's brain since the dreams started. Hartley slowly digs through his work mail, the cake and the coffee, his thoughts stuck on the fact that he willingly wanted to communicate with Cisco. Worse, that he is still thinking about one off-hand comment Cisco made years ago.

 

When his phone alarm goes off quarter to five he gets reminded that he has therapy today. He almost forgot, again. The appointment keeps falling through the cracks of his brain and he doesn't even want to start figuring out why. He had never been great with remembering every-day things but this is bordering denial.

 

Paintings line the wall in the L-Corp lobby. They get switched out regularly; this month the artist of choice is Bhupen Khakhar. The paintings are impressive and he lingers for a moment. The colors are loud but warm and calming. Hartley sways on his heel, a bit jittery while he can't tear his eyes away. He's got to give it to his new boss, to hang a painting with two naked men holding hands in your lobby is a bold move. One of them is sitting up in a bed, covered in a blue blanket with flower prints on it that makes Hartley distantly think _home_ even though he never owned a blanket like that or that feeling of calm and safe that the painting conveys. The man in the bed is looking at the viewer but not especially challenging. He looks more content.

 

The other man is sitting at his side, chin propped up on one hand, the other hand intertwined with his lover's hand. He is wearing gold rimmed glasses and looks at the other man with a subdued smile, searching his face or just regarding it. He looks in love.

 

After a moment Hartley shakes himself out of his stupor and turns to leave for the exit. It must have been too abruptly because he runs directly into a woman who seems like she didn't expect him to move. She shrieks and he flinches at the sudden sound. He pushes her away from him under the guise of steadying her.

 

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” She sounds flustered, pushing her glasses back up her nose and Hartley mirrors her gesture. She got her blonde hair up in a ponytail and it sways back and forth from her frantic movements while she apologizes. “Totally didn't see you there. Sorry.”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Hartley says and sidesteps her.

 

He is ten minutes late to his therapy appointment. He thinks about justifying it but simply apologizes. What is he supposed to say? My brain actively keeps me from getting help, I forgot time looking at some art and then I had a meet-cute? His therapist doesn't say anything about it, just smiles mysteriously – or at least to him it looks mysteriously – and nods. He barely knows anything about _Christine_. That's her name. She is tall and dark skinned and the kind of friendly that had always made Hartley's skin itch. Genuine. It reminds him of Cisco.

 

“What's on your mind?” Christine asks.

 

He supposes that she is almost a complete stranger makes it easier to talk. Or it's meant to make it easier. He barely scraped the surface until now but admittedly they are only a few sessions in. Though he kind of gave her a rough sketch of his past in their first meeting. He needed to know that she would be okay. With him. With what he did. That is what worries him the most. His parents kicking him out is a sob story, easy to categorize, makes most people like him actually. That he put on a hood and super sonic gauntlets and tried to kill someone is something else. He didn't tell her his nickname just that it made the news. And not in the good way. He guesses she figured it out by now. And she still shows him the same professional kindness so it seems they can make it work.

 

“A guy,” Hartley says because what's the point of coming here if he is going to lie.

 

“What's his name?” Christine asks. She has her legs crossed, leaning forward slightly. She is interested, Hartley thinks, maybe she thinks I'm going to unpack a love story.

 

“Cisco.” He is really talking about Cisco in therapy. That is a thing that is happening right now.

 

“What's your connection to him?”

 

“He was my coworker. At STAR Labs.” He fidgets with the hem of his sleeves. That's what they were.

 

“That's all?”

 

Hartley struggles to say anything and Christine has that knowing glint in her eyes. She knows she got him. It's not unkind, it's her job, but still – Hartley would prefer she wouldn't. But that's why he is here. To try to put it into words.

 

He wants to say, we hated each other. He wants to say, I hated him. He hated me. We were rivals. Enemies even for a part of it. But it doesn't seem right, it doesn't quite fit.

 

Christine takes pity on him. “What's he like?” She asks.

 

“Annoying as fuck,” Hartley says and laughs. “Even now-” Even now he finds a way to annoy me.

 

“Now what?” Christine asks.

 

“He doesn't let me forget,” Hartley says. “I just want to leave everything from my past behind me. That's why I came to this city. But he- I keep dreaming about him.” He frowns. “Vividly.”

 

“Oh,” Christine says, eyebrows shooting up.

 

“Yeah, oh.” Hartley says. “But not only oh. Like a bit oh. But tonight it was just a memory of getting drinks and him trying to psychoanalyze me.”

 

“Well, dreams are where our subconscious works through stuff,” Christine says. “Maybe he keeps popping up because there is still an unresolved issue. Something you need to figure out.”

 

Hartley stares at one of Christine's earrings, large and colorful and intricate. It keeps swinging back and forth when she talks. His unresolved issue with Cisco is that he never got to punch the guy in the face. Well, he did. But apparently not enough.

 

“Or it is as simple as you missing him,” Christine adds.

 

Hartley swallows. There is nothing simple about that.

 

That night he goes to bed praying for a dreamless sleep. He almost folds his hands the way he learned it.

 

He realizes how he knows he is dreaming. Everything is so - - quiet. Silent in a way Hartley hasn't experienced in years. Cisco is leaning against a wall at the street corner, practically bathed in the golden light of the setting sun and Hartley gives his subconscious the finger. There are people walking down the street but they are diffuse, more of an after thought to fill in the landscape. Cisco looks different. His hair is longer. And he is actually standing still. As far as Hartley can remember he used to vibrate out of his skin, not being able to keep still for a second.

 

“You again,” Hartley says.

 

Cisco looks up and smiles. He got one foot up against the wall behind him, wide blue jacket and black jeans. He looks like a fucking movie star.

 

“Brought you something,” Cisco says.

 

The flowers are beautiful. Hartley looks at the bouquet in his hands. No roses, thank god. Yellow peonies.

 

“Why?” Hartley asks.

 

“Let's walk,” Cisco says.

 

Hartley follows him down the road. Cisco got his hands in his pockets and looks more up in the sky then on the road. Hartley uses the moment to study him. That stillness still lingers around him even when he is walking.

 

“You're so quiet,” Cisco says. They are standing at the waterfront.

 

“I told my therapist about you today,” Hartley tells him because he might just as well. It seems to him like the flower bouquet has grown since the last time he looked at it.

 

“What did they say?” Cisco looks amused.

 

“She said there might be something unresolved between us,” Hartley says, mirroring his amusement. He leans against the handrail with his back and watches Cisco's face as he looks out on the water. His grin isn't as unguarded as it used to be.

 

“There's definitely some unresolved tension,” Cisco says.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Hartley says and looks down on the bouquet. Did it grow again? He has to hold the flowers with both of his arms now.

 

“You could find out,” Cisco says, voice low.

 

Hartley looks up. Cisco has turned to him and looks at him with an intensity that scares Hartley.

 

Hartley wakes up. He showers and washes away the aftershock of Cisco's look, the lingering smell of flowers. He shouldn't have talked about the dreams. He should just not think about them. He's working himself up into something here, he knows how gets sometimes; hung up on irrelevant shit.

 

He goes to work, he goes for a run and this night he doesn't dream about Cisco.

 

“You like it.”

 

Hartley startles. He is standing once again in front of that painting in the L-Corp lobby. The woman that had spoken to him was the one he ran into just a few days ago. He recognizes her instantly, though she seems more confident today, some of the dork-ness gone. She is clutching a couple of files tightly to her chest and studies the painting intently.

 

“What makes you think that?” Hartley asks.

 

“You've been staring at it for ten minutes,” She says without looking away from the painting. “And you were looking at it the first time we met.”

 

“Do you work here?” Hartley asks. Not that he cares that much but she seems intend on making conversation and he doesn't want to talk about the painting.

 

“Yes. Well no. I don't work at L-Corp,” She says. “I'm a journalist and I'm doing a portrait of the new head of L-Corp.”

 

“Ah,” He says. It's not like he dislikes journalists. But sometimes his old instincts kick back him and right now they tell him to shut up and walk away.

 

“I'm Kara, by the way,” She says with a bright smile.

 

“Hartley,” He says. “Who do you write for?”

 

“WIRED,” She says. He must make a face because her smile grows more forced as she adds, “I know I don't look like I write for a science magazine.”

 

“Well, not that WIRED is really a science magazine anyway,” Hartley mumbles and looks back at the painting.

 

Kara huffs out a laugh. “Insulting the publication I work for instead of me. What a refreshing change of pace.”

 

Hartley looks at her again. He hadn't expected the sarcasm. An idea creeps on him that he doesn't like at all. What if she recognized him. Someone working at WIRED, no matter how often Hartley berates it as a lifestyle magazine, would know who the Rathaways are. And it wouldn't be the first time a journalist posed as unassuming dummy to get Hartley to talk to them.

 

“I gotta go,” He says and turns away.

 

“Uh, okay. Bye.” He hears Kara call after him. Maybe he is getting too paranoid. Even if she recognized him it doesn't mean that she had ill intentions.

 

The next week his team has to present their monthly results to the CEO herself. Hartley keeps his head down while working at L-Corp. He just wants to pass as normal, wants to be left alone. So he doesn't give it his all, doesn't shine as bright as he knows that he can even though he misses someone looking at him like Harrison Wells did. Like he mattered. Like he was something special. Christine tells him that he shouldn't have to work for that, that he doesn't have to prove his worth but Hartley knows how the world works. Being smart, being useful has been the only way he could make people like him. So it is a real challenge to not be that now.

 

He stays in the background while the head of his team talks to Luthor. She keeps nodding and agreeing but something seems to bug her. She is leaning back with crossed arms, corners of her mouth tugged down. When the meeting is over she asks Hartley to stay.

 

“Sit,” She says and points to a chair on the other side of her desk.

 

He sits down, a knot in his guts as he tries to figure out what he has done wrong. Luthor is the kind of person that instills respect in him, that could inspire devotion and loyalty in him. If he'd let her.

 

“You've been working here for a while now,” She says, looking at him like she expects him to say something.

 

“Yes,” He says. She is still frowning.

 

“Is there anything that isn't to your liking? Is there anything I can do to improve your work experience here?” She asks.

 

Hartley stares at her, speechless. Anything she could do-?

 

Luthor sighs and she runs a hand through her hair. She relaxes, gives him a casual smile but something about it makes Hartley uneasy.

 

“Mr. Rathaway, I was very happy when I could win you for my company. I've heard about your work, seen prove myself. You're brilliant. But now you're hiding behind other people's work. Maybe there is something that I can assist you with to achieve your full potential again.”

 

Hartley shrinks into his seat. His throat is dry. He knows he isn't doing good work but to hear it to his face still feels shitty. “I'm sorry,” He says. Almost expects her to snap. _Don't apologize. Do better._ But she just smiles sadly. He adds, “I'm happy with my job. It's just - - private stuff.”

 

“I've been thinking about putting you into a special team if you're up to it,” She says. A peace offering. A chance for him to do it better. “We need someone with your expertise. Sonic vibrations.”

 

His blood freezes. Now he can see it, behind her layers of laid back boss, friendliness and understanding. She is playing. He forces himself to breathe. Most people do it. To get to her level she needs to be good at it. It's normal. She is not a super-villain in disguise. Still. She knows about him. Of course she does.

 

“I've heard you've been affected by the dark matter as well.” She is coming out of hiding. Striking. “I think there is a lot you can contribute to this team. We are on the forefront of science here, Mr. Rathaway. You have the chance to do something great again.”

 

Now Hartley laughs. Openly laughs at her. If she fires him he doesn't care. “You know the last time someone told me those exact words a lot of people died.”

 

“But not because of you,” Luthor says. She leans forward, eyes challenging and smiling. “Help us learn from the mistakes that have been made. Do what you do best. It's time to come out of the shadows, Hartley.”

 

Hartley gets up and goes to the door.

 

“Think about it,” Luthor calls after him.

 

On his way out he runs into Kara again. She greets him excitedly but he ignores her.

 

In his dream he wanders through an abandoned building. He knows who he is looking for. He must be here somewhere, Hartley is sure. As if he could comfort Hartley. As if he would care.

 

In the next dream he attends his own funeral. The people who should be there are not. He steps up to the casket and looks down at his own dead face. His mouth opens, the one of the corpse, and a black bird breaks free. Hartley follows its flight until it disappears in the distance.

 

During breakfast he does an exercise Christine told him to do when he gets overwhelmed. He writes down what happened. Just the facts. No emotions.

 

_Someone tried to start a conversation with me._

 

_I got offered an important position at work._

 

He doesn't know if it is too reductive. But it calms his nerves. Maybe Kara will turn out to be a speculative leech. Maybe Luthor will abuse her knowledge about Hartley. But it hasn't happened yet. No need to stress about it.

 

This day he goes to Luthor and tells her he takes the job. She smiles brilliantly and Hartley feels himself being sucked into her vortex.

 

“Nice place,” Cisco says.

 

They are in Hartley's apartment in National City. It's not pompous but it's not sparse either. Cisco wanders around, picking up stuff to look at. Luckily this is a dream so he won't leave any smeary fingerprints or drop something. Hartley has shared a lab with this man for too long to expect anything else.

 

Cisco opens the door to his bedroom and whistles. “How do you even afford this place? Is that another bathroom?” Hartley hears him yell from inside.

 

Hartley rolls his eyes and follows Cisco who is rifling through his bathroom cabinets. Hartley slams the doors shut in front of his face. “I have my ways, Cisco.”

 

“Wait,” Cisco says, turning slowly to Hartley. “Did you steal the money?”

 

Hartley shrugs lightly.

 

“Oh my god. You did! And here I thought you are reformed,” Cisco says accusatory.

 

“They deserved it,” Hartley says and turns on his heels.

 

Cisco stalks after him, making fuming noises in his back. “You can't just steal from people, Hartley. I can't just let you steal from people- -”

 

“Relax,” Hartley says and drops down on his couch. “It was a one time thing. And they really deserved it.”

 

“Who?” Cisco asks, trying to tower over him with crossed arms. Hartley is not really intimidated.

 

“I might have robbed my parents blind,” Hartley admits, a grin sneaking on his face because it still feels too good. Petty, but damn good.

 

Cisco chin drops. “Okay, I'm not mad anymore.” He sits down next to Hartley, tentatively uncrossing his arms. “Wait.” He frowns. “Didn't your parents loose like billions of dollars? Are you a billionaire, Hartley? Why did you always make me pay for movie tickets when you are a billionaire?”

 

“Don't be stupid, I didn't keep it all for myself,” Hartley snaps back. “Let's say I won't have to worry about my future. But I gave away most of it.”

 

“Aw, to charities?” Cisco coos. Hartley slaps his leg and Cisco laughs. Then suddenly somber, Cisco adds, “But for real, that's a pretty cool thing to do.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Hartley shrugs. “I thought the most dramatic revengeful thing I could do is to donate it to LGBT organizations, so- -”

 

“- -you did that,” Cisco finishes his sentence. “Of course that's the credo you live your life by. That explains so much about you. Still, pretty good thing to do.”

 

Hartley watches Cisco carefully, looks for any traps that could lie in those words. “I guess,” He says finally. “Doesn't make up for - -” He doesn't have to finish that sentence.

 

“Doesn't have to,” Cisco says, again so weirdly solemn. “Can just be a good thing, can't it.”

 

“I guess,” Hartley repeats. Cisco is just looking at him now and it makes Hartley uneasy.

 

Then Cisco gaze drifts slightly past his face and he starts shrieking. “Oh, fuck me, you got the special collectors edition? How do I not know about this?”

 

Hartley shakes off the lingering weirdness of that look and tries to keep Cisco from climbing over him to get to his DVD shelf. “Because against your apparent belief I do not share everything with you.”

 

“But Star Trek, man,” Cisco pouts. “You gotta share Star Trek. It's the spirit. It's what Kirk would have wanted.”

 

“That you believe that I'm into Kirk shows that you really don't know anything about me,” Hartley says and pushes Cisco further away from him and his Star Trek collection.

 

“Come on,” Cisco says, and falls back against the armrest just to shove his foot into Hartley's face area. “Who is not into Kirk? TOS Kirk at least.”

 

Before Hartley can answer or contemplate something as stupid as trying to tickle Cisco's foot he thankfully wakes up. His phone tells him it's three am. He almost gets up to check if his Star Trek collection is still there or if Cisco's ghost somehow stole it. Of course he doesn't. He also doesn't punch himself in the face even though he kind of wants to that right now.

 

Working on Luthor's special team means actually using his brain again. He forgot how exhausting it is. Not the work itself but rather the obsessiveness that comes with it, the hours, the intensity, the stakes. At first he keeps to the background but soon it pulls him in again.

 

They are not told what they are really working on but Hartley is used to this kind of compartmentalization. But being once again in a room surrounded by highly intelligent people and being able to contribute is like a drug to Hartley. He is still younger than most of them, and they probably don't like him but they need him. Luthor was right. They need his knowledge. His experience.

 

Work swallows up most of his time again. That's okay, though. He doesn't have much more going on anyway.

 

When he realizes he is dreaming about Cisco again it feels like Cisco has been holding him for hours. He feels like he is about to fall asleep in a dream which seems like bullshit. But Cisco is soft and warm and they're lying down somewhere. He drifts in a comfortable haze, head on Cisco's arm and tucked under Cisco's chin against his chest. Not even the realization that it's Cisco can disturb him. Cisco laughs quietly and Hartley can feel the vibrations travel through his body.

 

“I like you like this,” Cisco mumbles. “So quiet. So good.”

 

Hartley's heart is beating in his throat. He wants Cisco to keep talking, hear that soft voice whispering praise. Cisco is carding his finger's through Hartley's hair.

 

“You'd be good for me, wouldn't you,” He adds and Hartley makes a sound in the back of his throat, a sob or moan, he isn't so sure himself.

 

Yes, he thinks. Yes.

 

Hartley has his eyes closes but he feels Cisco shift and then his breath is ghosting over Hartley's face. The thought of Cisco's lips makes him shiver, makes his hand curl tightly into Cisco's shirt.

 

Then the dream slips out of Hartley's grasp. He wakes up with empty arms. He presses his face into his pillow and sighs. The thought of letting himself go this much in front of the real Cisco makes his guts twist. Maybe I'm just lonely, Hartley thinks. Even though he doesn't know why the personification of his needs has to look like Cisco.

 

His mind gets stuck on the feeling of Cisco's hand in his hair. The phantom pain of something that had never happened. It haunts him on the way to work, follows him down streets and into metro cars.

 

Christine seems to be proud about his progress in their next session. Hartley tries to let himself feel it.

 

“Any more dreams?” She asks. He knew this would come. He tells her about his hypotheses that he is just projecting his loneliness on Cisco.

 

“Could be,” She says, completely neutral. “The question still stands: why him?”

 

There a thought occurs to Hartley: What if this isn't my fault?

 

He can't quite pin down where that thought comes from or what it means. But it persists in the back of his mind. He goes out that night, insistent of fighting off the lonely nights. But after an hour in the bar he realizes this was a stupid idea; he doesn't want to talk to any of these people, much less go home with one of them. If he is honest with himself he is looking forward to dreaming about Cisco again.

 

So he goes home and does something he hasn't allowed himself before. He touches himself and thinks about Cisco. He comes embarrassingly quick. It doesn't feel all that satisfying. It just makes him crave the real thing even more.

 

When Cisco slides in the booth opposite of him he wears that same old ear-to-ear grin.

 

“This is awesome,” He exclaims as the waitress sets down burgers and fries in front of them.

 

Hartley rolls his eyes but he can't help himself, he just wants to reach over there and touch. Maybe he should. Even though it's a dream he seems to have an astounding amount of control over his actions. This is what lucid dreaming must feel like.

 

He decides against any stupid actions, instead taking a bite of his burger. He notices Cisco staring at him. He swallows. “What?”

 

“I think I've never seen you eat before,” Cisco says.

 

“I don't understand how me eating comes as such a surprise to you.”

 

“Well,” Cisco takes a sip of his coke. “I had this theory about you being a soulless robot only build to make my life harder.”

 

“And you're calling me self-centered.” Hartley looks around the room. It seems to create itself as soon as Hartley looks. It's a classic diner with non-descript people sitting at the bar and at the tables. The street outside the window could be anywhere. Hartley wonders what would happen if he'd got up and started walking around.

 

“Hey, earth to Hartley.” Cisco snaps his fingers in front of Hartley's face. “Are you still with me?”

 

“Is this a date?” Hartley asks. Cisco's eyes widen. “Have we been having dream dates?” Hartley continues.

 

“Pfff.” Cisco leans back with crossed arms. “You and me? A date?”

 

“Cisco,” Hartley says exasperated. If he is right about this he can't let Cisco off the hook. “You brought me flowers. We're at a restaurant right now. _We were in bed together_.”

 

Suddenly there is fear in Cisco's eyes. Hartley feels the edges of the dream starting to dissolve. “I- - what - -?” Cisco stammers. “How do you - - Oh.”

 

“How do I know?” Hartley guesses the end of Cisco's sentence. “Because it's me, Cisco. I don't know what the fuck you're doing but it's really me.” And it's really you, he thinks. Somehow this has been Cisco all along.

 

Now he just has to figure out for exactly how long it had been Cisco.

 

Then Hartley wakes up.

 

After that the dreams stop. That's the final prove Hartley needs that it really was Cisco vibe-invading his dreams. Hartley spends many days in a shock induced haze. He can't even bring his brain to think about the implications. He replays the dreams over and over again. What Cisco had said. What he had done. How Hartley had responded.

 

The next day he sees Kara again. He sees her blond hair moving through the crowd of the L-Corp lobby and out of some instinct he follows her. He walks outside just in time to see her get into a black car. The car is not driving away, just standing there. Kara must be having a conversation with the person inside. Hiding out of sight behind a pillar he does something he knows he shouldn't do. He turns down the noise dampener in his ears.

 

It's too much, at first. All that noise crashing in on him. But he had trained when he was still running around pretending to be a comic book villain. He focuses and soon he finds Kara's voice.

 

“I'm just going to run it by her and then I think I'll be finished in a week. Maybe two weeks with proofreading.”

 

“Good,” Another woman answers her. “Just in time for the July issue. Did you get a new statement from your source about - -”

 

Hartley tunes out again. He leans his head back against the pillar. Seems like Kara is doing what she says she is. Unless- a thought crosses his mind. Unless she thought someone might be listening to her.

 

“Hey, you okay?” A woman in a pantsuit who is passing by asks.

 

Hartley realizes that he has gone limp, leaning completely against the pillar for support, breathing heavily. He straightens up and glares at the woman. His phone shrills. He would have forgotten his therapy appointment. Again.

 

He tells Christine about Kara.

 

She is wearing a cat sweater today. Hartley can't decide if the cat is frowning or not. The more he talks about his suspicions about Kara the more it looks like it's frowning.

 

“That's not good, Hartley,” Christine sighs.

 

“I'm not feeling good about this either,” Hartley says. Yep, the cat is definitely frowning.

 

“I'm not saying you should trust everyone you meet, but-” She sighs again. “Spying on her? How could you even hear her?”

 

“I'm - -” Hartley hesitates. “Sensitive. I hear a lot. That's why I wear all this metal that makes me look like a teenage girl with braces in her ears.”

 

He looks up at Christine's face. She looks conflicted, obviously trying to keep her composure for the sake of professionalism. But her eyes are the same warm, kind brown as always. Almost like the eyes of someone else he knows.

 

“Has there been any other event in your life recently that made you feel - - similar?” Christine asks.

 

Hartley knows he's gotta spill now. “My boss. She knows - - a lot about me apparently. She knows what I did in Central City. Not just that I worked for STAR Labs.” He raises his eyebrows at Christine and realization dawns on her face. “She asked me very politely if I wanted the new position,” Hartley continues, “But still. She brought it up. What she knows about me. The power she has over me with that.”

 

Christine sighs again. “That's not good,” She repeats in that tone that his mother used when his grades dropped. Like she is disappointed in him. “That's a pattern, Hartley.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hartley asks.

 

“It's completely understandable that after what you've been through you have a hard time trusting people,” Christine says. “And again, I don't want you to be naive and trust every stranger. But seeing danger when good things happen to you? Getting a promotion. Meeting someone new. You're closing yourself off. I know it's hard but you have to open yourself to the possibility of things getting better.”

 

“I'm not - - I want things to get better,” Hartley argues. “But my instincts are telling me something is off here.”

 

Christine looks at him with those gentle eyes, and he hates it. “Maybe you have to accept that after everything you cannot always trust your instincts,” She says carefully. “That maybe you are seeing things that aren't there.”

 

Hartley stares at her speechless.

 

“Not everyone wants to hurt you, Hartley,” She adds. “I want you to promise me something.”

 

“What?” Hartley asks toneless.

 

“Don't snoop around anymore. Don't, you know,” She motions towards her ears, “Don't try to overhear anything else. If you try too hard to find something you're going to become-”

 

“Paranoid? Crazy?” Hartley supplies. His heart isn't in it though. He feels himself drifting off, unfocussed, the cat blurring in front of his eyes. Maybe it has been smiling the entire time?

 

The dreams don't return. At one point Hartley can't take it anymore. The uncertainty. The promises. He could call Cisco. But he would just deny everything. Hartley takes a week from work. He gets into his car and drives to Central City.

 

It's weird to be back in the city. Everything is still the same. The sky. The streets. The buildings. He'd find his way to STAR Labs blind. He still got all the clearance codes. He wishes he wouldn't be so fucking nervous. He doesn't let himself think about how bad this could go.

 

They are all in the cortex. The whole gang. Hartley watches them for a moment without being noticed. They seem stressed, arguing about something. Cisco sits in a chair at the far end of the cortex. His hair really is longer.

 

Hartley walks into the room and everyone goes quiet. Cisco stills, hands frozen in the air from gesturing.

 

“Hartley?” Caitlin asks. “What are you doing here?” She looks weird, different, but Hartley can't concentrate on that right now.

 

Words, Hartley thinks. “I'm trying to figure something out,” He says. “I have some questions about Cisco's powers.” He leans to the side so he can look past Joe who turned in front of Cisco. Cisco looks like he had in the last dream. In shock.

 

“Sure, I can help,” Harry – who is apparently still hanging around – volunteers. Cisco looks at him pleadingly but Harry goes on. “Come on, Ramon. I'm tired of having this argument anyway.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Barry says and sighs. “I don't think we'll get much further today. You can borrow them.”

 

Harry leads the way to the workshop and Cisco and Hartley follow. Hartley does have some questions about Cisco's powers and he is almost glad that he doesn't have to be alone with Cisco. He is painfully aware of Cisco, of where Cisco's body is in the room in relation to his own. How Cisco hasn't said a word until now.

 

In the workshop that Harry still seems to occupy like a second home Cisco sits down in a chair as far away from them as possible. Harry leans against a desk, arms crossed, and starts interrogating Hartley. He forgot that this guy has zero chill.

 

“So, Cisco told us you work for L-Corp now.” Of course Cisco is keeping tabs on him. “If Luthor is anything like on my earth you are in good hands. He's got a mind for greatness.”

 

“It's his sister actually,” Hartley says. “She is the CEO.”

 

“I see,” Harry says. “Tell us about the project. What do you need to know?”

 

Hartley lets Harry think that this is about a work project. “I know Cisco can vibe objects and people but did he ever communicate with anyone through his vibes?”

 

“You know, I'm in the room, too,” Cisco finally offers a commentary.

 

Harry ignores him and nods in a manner that for him seems almost excitedly. “Yes. We've come so far that he can project simple concepts into other people's minds.”

 

“Can he do that in dreams, too?” Hartley asks while keeping his eyes fixed on Cisco. The annoyed facade falls from Cisco's face revealing something more vulnerable.

 

“Yes,” Harry confirms something Hartley already knew. “I think it happened once or twice on accident.”

 

“How much control does the other person have in those dreams?” Hartley asks. And that's the point really. Not that he feels like Cisco made him do something he didn't want to do. He is mature enough to admit that he had wanted those things. But still. He needs to know. He is still looking at Cisco who turned his gaze to the ground, kneading his hands in his lap.

 

“Er- - Control?” Harry seems to realize that something else is going on but he answers Hartley's question. “It's a lot like lucid dreaming. The person is still in full control but we think Ramon creates the dream environment.” After a moment he adds, “Should I leave?”

 

“No,” Cisco basically shrieks, head snapping up. He really looks at Hartley for the first time. “Look, it's not what you think it is.”

 

“What do I think it is?” Hartley asks, honestly curious what Cisco thinks how Hartley sees the situation. Because to Hartley it is obvious what this is.

 

But Cisco backpedals, panicked, “Listen, Harry said it. It happens on accident. I can't control it. I didn't even realize what was happening until -”

 

“Yeah, I'm aware you didn't realize it,” Hartley says. Now it's his turn to cross his arms and back away. This is not the way he thought this would go. Sure, he thought that Cisco would be very embarrassed about it. But that he is outright denying that there had been something - - it hurts, Hartley realizes.

 

“Hey, dude. I'm sorry,” Cisco says.

 

“God, don't 'dude' me, Cisco,” Hartley says and he feels so stupid. He drove all this way, he came back to Central City and for what?

 

“It's not gonna happen again, okay?” Cisco says, throwing up his hands in the air.

 

“You do realize that that is not what this is about,” Hartley says slowly.

 

Cisco stills and looks at him wide-eyed. Hartley is getting tired of that deer-in-headlights look. Cisco can't be so dumb that he doesn't get why Hartley is here. Sure, he didn't come on a white horse bearing gifts but he didn't think he had to. And maybe he had wanted to pick on Cisco, just a bit, because honestly this whole situation is ridiculous. But in the end it had seemed very clear cut to Hartley.

 

But apparently not to Cisco.

 

Cisco looks away and his features go soft and vulnerable and Hartley hates that look because he already knows what comes next. “I- - I'm sorry, Hartley. There is just so much going on right now. I can't- - I don't- -”

 

Hartley nods. He feels like he's looking at himself from above.

 

“You said I could find out,” He says quietly. You brought me flowers. You held me and told me I'm good.

 

Hartley wills himself to turn around and walk away. At some point Harry must have left the room because he is nowhere to be seen. Hartley ignores the rest of the team and heads straight to his car.

 

He drives.

 

A few miles outside of Central City he has to pull over. He leans over the wheel, clutching it tightly, shoulders shaking. He thought he had this one right. He thought he understood. God, how vulnerable he made himself in front of Cisco, how much he let himself go.

 

He gets out of a car. It's early evening and he is parking right next to a field, the cicadas striking up their nightly song. He walks a few feet and sits down in the grass. A sob shakes through him and he presses his face into his hands.

 

His thoughts won't stop. Maybe Christine is right. Maybe he can't trust his judgment anymore. Apparently he must have read that situation completely wrong. Of course he read it wrong. On what earth would Cisco Ramon want something from him? He is going crazy. He is truly going crazy.

 

When he thinks he can drive without breaking into tears every two minutes he gets up again. He drives well into the night. At some point he pulls into a rest stop to catch at least a few hours of sleep.

 

He is surrounded by water. It's pleasantly warm and he is swimming like he knows where he has to go. After a while there is ground under his feet, a sand bank, but around him still nothing but turquoise water and above the sun. Then he sees the figure.

 

When he is so close that he could reach out and touch the person's shoulder they turn around. Of course it's Cisco. They are in each others arms in seconds. Cisco gasps and clings to him, kissing him with force. Hartley runs his hands over sun-warmed skin, through wet hair. Cisco has his arms around Hartley's neck and licks into Hartley's mouth like he owns it. And he lets Cisco, tries to keep his balance, skin tingling, and lets Cisco take whatever he wants. Cisco's hands glide over his shoulders, Cisco's mouth traveling along his neck and Hartley moans.

 

“God, look at you,” Hartley gasps. “You want me, Cisco. Admit it.”

 

Cisco just bites down over Hartley's pulse drawing another moan from him.

 

“Tell me you want me,” Hartley repeats, this close to begging. But Cisco silences him with a kiss, swallowing every noise that escapes from Hartley's throat. Then a wave crashes over them, dragging Hartley under. The sun makes diamonds of the surface above. Cisco's hand is slipping out of his.

 

Hartley snaps awake. There is a wet spot in his pants and he takes the time to change in the gas station bathroom and get some coffee. The sun is coming up on the horizon, signalizing that he might have even slept enough to drive safely. When he gets back into the car a burst of laughter shakes through him. He lets his head fall back against the seat. His skin feels too tight.

 

He goes to work even though he still has half a week off theoretically. But facing his empty apartment and his own head for multiple days straight sounds like hell. So he goes to work. No one asks him where he has been or why he's back already. He's glad there is no one who would ask. He buries himself in work.

 

One day – or rather night; it's quarter past eleven and he is still at his desk – he looks up and realizes what they are building. He sits paralyzed for a couple of seconds. Than he stands and leaves without shutting off his computer.

 

His heart is beating frantically against his ribs. On his way out he sees light in Luthor's office. He wants to confront her, yell at her for not telling him that he has been here for one reason only. He gets ten steps into the direction of her office. He stops dead in his tracks when he can see through the glass panes.

 

Kara's piece about Luthor ran already; he had seen it on display at the newspaper stands. Lena Luthor's enigmatic smile shining on him from multiple rows. So what is Kara doing in her office now? He doesn't even think about listening to them, could probably hear nothing over the blood rushing in his ears anyway. Standing in the elevator he feels the ground swaying under his feet.

 

He finds a bar and a drink to hold onto. It quiets his raging mind enough for him to at least try to bring order into what is happening. Learn from the mistakes, Luthor had said. He had thought she had meant it metaphorical. He didn't think she meant _I'm trying to do the same thing as Eobard Thawne and you have to help me because you were there_.

 

Somewhere along his third drink the notion that she might not have bad intentions gets lost to Hartley entirely. She had tried to hide it well but he is smart, too smart for his own good. He shivers through the memory of confronting Dr. Wells about the flaws in the particle accelerator that weren't flaws to begin with. He thinks about the calculating look in Luthor's eyes. He thinks about Kara making small talk with him.

 

To be fair, it doesn't look like Luthor is trying to wreak havoc over National City the way Thawne turned Central City upside down. If he reads the blueprints correctly she is trying to recreate the dark matter explosion in a controlled environment. For whatever reasons. Why would she want that? The obvious explanation knocks again Hartley's mind but he doesn't let himself entertain it.

 

When he gets kicked out of the bar because they are closing up there is still a lot of night in front of him. He doesn't feel like going home, doesn't feel like sleeping, nothing waiting there for him anyway. Instead he walks the city that was supposed to become his new home. On normal days there are streets and corners that make him feel grounded in the sense he has become to associate with home but tonight every face is a mask and the darkness seeps cold into his core.

 

Maybe he falls asleep for a few minutes on a bench outside of a park shortly before the sun rises. But the warmth and the noises of an awakening city startle him soon enough. He rubs his eyes and realizes that he isn't wearing his glasses. That explains the blurriness. Though it doesn't get much better when he finds his glasses again.

 

He zips up his jacket as if it could shield him from the people around him and walks down the street. At the end of the park a church towers over the sidewalk. Normally Hartley would stay far away but today - - today he feels hopeless in a way he hasn't for a while.

 

The big wooden door creaks as he enters. Inside the stone building it's cool and quiet. Of course Hartley still hears the noises from the street, the cars and bikes and snippets of conversations. But the air in here has a stillness that is familiar and unsettling at the same time.

 

He slouches down in the pews at the back. There are a few figures drifting on the periphery of his vision. He looks at his hands, pressing his thumb in the palm of his other hand. His heart is a piece of red-hot coal; it burns a hole in his chest.

 

“You about done there?” A sharp voice asks.

 

Hartley knows that voice. He slowly raises his head.

 

“Pathetic,” Dr. Wells says, standing in the row in front of Hartley. “You know you could have become someone great if you wouldn't be so sentimental.”

 

Hartley blinks, pulse racing but this cannot be. This cannot be. For a moment he wonders if it's the other Wells but he tosses the idea instantly. He knows that stance too well, those narrowed eyes. That voice.

 

“Don't look so surprised,” Dr. Wells says, that shark grin tugging at his lips that he used to hide so carefully. Hartley is almost glad that Thawne isn't pretending. Or whatever this is.

 

“What - - How - -” Hartley chokes out. He feels dizzy. “You're dead.”

 

“I am,” Dr. Wells confirms, leaning back against the backrest of the pew. “And I'm not. Not up there.” He points at Hartley's head.

 

“I am going crazy,” Hartley whispers to himself. “I am batshit insane.”

 

“Your point?” Dr. Wells asks. He surveys his surroundings. “Oh, Hartley,” He says, sticky-sweet sympathy. “Your last resort?”

 

“I hate you,” Hartley says. Means it for maybe the first time.

 

“You Catholics bore me,” Dr. Wells says. “All that self-pity and guilt.”

 

“I don't feel - - guilty,” Hartley presses out.

 

Dr. Wells doesn't laugh but he's close. “Lying doesn't suit you.”

 

Hartley closes his eyes against the cruel smile. What's that they say about the blue-eyed devil?

 

“Face it,” Wells keeps on talking. “In the end I cast you out because you are not as ruthless as you pretend to be. There is this will to do good in you that you keep denying and pushing down but it's eating you alive.”

 

“I cannot believe to you are telling me to be good,” Hartley hisses, not even caring if anyone hears him.

 

Wells looks unimpressed. “I'm not telling you to do anything. I'm just saying it how it is. Your moral compass might be skewed in your favor but it's still there. And you feel guilty. Because you've been raised to be so. And because your still clinging to that daydream that you could fit in. Be normal.”

 

Hartley sits up straight. “What do you want from me?” Over Well's shoulder he can see the cross over the altar. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have brought his evil in here.

 

“You're bad at pretending,” Wells says and raises his hand. Before Hartley can recoil he lays it on top of head. Hartley feels the steady pressure. “Just stop.”

 

Hartley closes his eyes.

 

_Just breathe._

 

 

 

 

 

 

The darkness retreats again. The first thing Hartley feels is exhaustion. He opens his eyes to an hospital room and he is too exhausted to panic. He is too exhausted to be scared that he can't remember how he got here.

 

Before too long a nurse sweeps into the room. She calls him Mr. Rathaway, checks him over and is in general very nice. Tells him to wait for a doctor when he asks questions. He falls asleep again. The next time he wakes up there is a doctor present, short hair and pencil skirt, but she isn't very helpful with answering his questions either. She much rather asks him questions. What he remembers. If there were any previous incidents like this one. If he is in any kind of therapy. He stares at the IV bag and tells her about Christine.

 

After his doctor leaves the nurse tells him he's got a visitor. Hartley wrecks his brain but it must still be trashed because he can't think of one person who would visit him.

 

Cisco leans against the door frame with crossed arms and a quiet smile. “What are you doing, Hartley?” He shakes his head slightly.

 

Hartley's hand curl in the bed sheets. “What- - How- -” His heart is hammering in his chest. “How do you even know that I'm here?”

 

“I'm still your emergency contact, remember?” Cisco says and walks over to him.

 

Hartley remembers with a jolt. It had been a slow afternoon helping Team Flash and Hartley had used the time while he was waiting for Caitlin's lab report to fill out legal documents. It was boring and depressive and after a while he had let his head fall on the table with a loud sigh. Cisco had been with him in the cortex and asked what was up.

 

“I have to give them an emergency contact,” Hartley had mumbled against the table. “I literally do not know who- -”

 

Hartley had expected Cisco to make a quip about Hartley having no friends but instead he had simply asked, “Don't you have any - - further removed family that you get along with?”

 

“No,” Hartley replies.

 

“Okay - - take me,” Cisco had said with a sigh. Hartley sat up straight, not believing what he was hearing. But Cisco was already rattling of his contact information and Hartley filled it in without his brain catching up with what was happening.

 

“You came,” Hartley says. Their last conversation - their last dream - still clear in his mind.

 

“Yeah, of course,” Cisco says, foregoing the chair to sit on the bedside facing Hartley. “Came as soon as they called.”

 

Maybe it is because Hartley is tired and there is nowhere to run but he allows himself to relax under Cisco's soft gaze. He has always liked Cisco's attention even though he has been kind of bad at getting it in a positive way.

 

“They said it looked like you hadn't eaten and slept in days,” Cisco says quietly, brows knitting together. “What's going on? Is this because- -?”

 

Hartley tries to find words, but all he can think is, he came. He came for me. “I don't know- -” Hartley says finally. “No. Maybe. Part of it?” He doesn't want Cisco to blame himself for any of Hartley's fucked up shit.

 

Cisco takes Hartley's hand, running his thumb over the back of it. “I'm sorry,” He says and it's so quiet Hartley can barely make it out. “I'm so sorry. You're right.”

 

Hartley thinks his heart is going to stop when Cisco keeps looking at him like that.

 

“I want you,” Cisco says.

 

Hartley hears himself breath loudly in the quiet air. He doesn't know how to react. He had given up hope. Something in him is still waiting for the catch. But Cisco is here, holding his hand and smiling at him.

 

He looks away, a blush creeping over his face. Cisco chuckles lightly, but it's not aimed at him. He sounds happy. Hartley knows he doesn't have to say anything. Cisco can read him perfectly well. This is not a game. And if it would be Hartley would have been losing from the beginning.

 

The nurse returns to bring Hartley food and Cisco doesn't let go of his hand. The nurse smiles brightly and comments how nice it is for Hartley's boyfriend to be here for him. When she sees the look on their faces she quickly backs off and asks if she was mistaken.

 

“Er - -,” Cisco stammers, “I guess we have been dating.”

 

“Well, thank you for not gaslighting me anymore,” Hartley says and tugs at his hand. But Cisco's eyes go wide in shock. Hartley groans. “It's a joke. You dumb idiot.”

 

“There is the Hartley I have missed,” Cisco says, obviously aiming for sarcasm but the smile on his face is wide and honest.

 

They let Hartley check out because Cisco promises to stay with him and make sure he takes care of himself. Hartley doesn't even have to ask him to do it, Cisco just offers it up like he got nothing better to do with his time.

 

“Won't your team miss you?” Hartley asks in the taxi to his apartment.

 

Cisco looks at him. “I'm not going to leave you when you need help,” He says, all that earnestness that Hartley never could stand because he wanted it so much. “Anyway, I'm just a breach away if there is an emergency.”

 

Hartley thinks about kissing Cisco then and he thinks about it later when they are in his apartment. But he is so tired and suddenly anxious. He cannot bring himself to make the first move again.

 

It's late and after dinner Hartley feels ready to sleep for a million years. He can talk Cisco out of taking the couch because he needs him near. Not that he tells him that exactly but Cisco seems to understand anyway. They curl up in bed together; Hartley tentatively reaching for Cisco who pulls him in. All he can think before he falls asleep is how he easy this is after all their fights.

 

He wakes up to Cisco blinking awake next to him as well.

 

“This is so much better,” Hartley mumbles, curling his hand in Cisco's shirt.

 

“What?” Cisco asks, sleepy-confused.

 

“Waking up to you than dreaming about you.”

 

Cisco opens his eyes completely. He rests his hand on Hartley's cheek and Hartley lets his eyes flutter shut again, soaking in the warmth.

 

“I'm sorry,” Cisco says again.

 

“Stop saying that,” Hartley says but stills when Cisco traces his lips with his thumb.

 

“You know my friends kicked my ass after you left,” Cisco says. “Caitlin put the fear of god into me.”

 

“I can't imagine Caitlin being scary at all,” Hartley huffs out. Much less taking a stand for him.

 

“Oh, she changed,” Cisco says quietly. “God, you don't know how much changed since you left.”

 

Hartley opens his eyes. Cisco's eyes are a pool of sadness. “Then tell me,” Hartley says, catching Cisco's hand in his own.

 

And Cisco does. Tells him everything starting with Barry changing the timeline again, his brother dying, Savitar wrecking their city and their lives to Caitlin turning into Killer Frost. Hartley listens intently with growing horror. Somewhere in the back of his mind his anxiety throbs like an open wound. He keeps it in check for Cisco. It all comes spilling out of Cisco like a big slush of muddy water. Hartley holds his hand through it, feeling useless to his chore.

 

“But don't you worry about that,” Cisco says at the end, sounding a little hopeless despite his smile. “You shouldn't worry about anything else but you right now.”

 

Hartley wants to offer some words of consolation but he has always been bad at this. Everything he can think of saying sounds stupid. He presses his lips against Cisco's fingers. “If there is anything I can do- -”

 

“What did I just say?” Cisco says but if Hartley isn't mistaken there is a light flush on his face.

 

“I want to help,” Hartley says.

 

“Fuck.” Cisco rubs the hand that isn't being held by Hartley over his face. “You got out of this, Hartley. This isn't your fight anymore.”

 

 _It is if you are._ Hartley doesn't say that. This still feels too delicate to put something like that out there. “I want to help,” He insists. “It's the least I can do after - - what I have done.”

 

Cisco's eyes widen and his grip in Hartley's hands tightens. “Okay,” Cisco say slowly. “Let's not talk about this before breakfast please?”

 

But Hartley needs to say this now or he might never get it out again. He need the protection of this fragile bubble they exist in right now. “Let me make it up to you,” He says, heart fluttering in his chest. “All of it. Please.”

 

Cisco huffs out a breath but it sounds shaky, too. “I'm currently in your bed if you haven't noticed. I think that's enough of a signal that I'm giving you another shot.”

 

A timid warmth spreads through Hartley's chest. He leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss to Cisco's lips. The real thing feels so much _more_ than their dream kiss. It's not even more than a simple press of lips but it is already pulling Hartley apart.

 

“I love the direction you're taking this,” Cisco says after they part. “But I wasn't kidding about breakfast. I'm starving. And you still need to tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

 

Cisco leaves Hartley to make breakfast and Hartley just takes a minute to stare at the ceiling and try to get a grip. Cisco actually called into Hartley's work to tell them he is taking a sick leave. So Hartley has another week to figure out how he is going to deal. Just in general and with the mess at work. His phone rings. He picks up and it's Christine.

 

“How are you?” She asks. “The hospital called me.”

 

“I'm- -” Hartley thinks about it. “I'll live,” He says. “Cisco is here.”

 

“Oh,” Christine says, sounding amused. “How nice of him.”

 

“Yeah,” Hartley says, feeling a blush creeping over his face.

 

“I would be very happy if you'd come to your appointment in two days,” She says.

 

“Sure,” He says. “I'll be there.”

 

“Can I trust you not to end in the hospital until then?” She asks, humor and worry lacing her words.

 

“I promise,” Hartley says. He means it.

 

They say goodbye. When Hartley throws the phone back on the nightstand he notices Cisco standing in the door frame.

 

“Who was that?” He asks.

 

“My therapist. She just wanted to check in.”

 

“That's nice,” Cisco says but his gaze is trailing over Hartley's body. Hartley feels his blush deepen. He feels raw and open to Cisco's eyes. But then Cisco says, “Breakfast's ready,” and leaves the room again.

 

Hartley picks himself up with a sigh and follows Cisco into the kitchen. Over scrambled eggs and toast he tells Cisco that Lena Luthor is trying to recreate the effect of the dark matter explosion. Cisco almost drops his fork.

 

“Shit, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Hartley says lamely. “I don't know. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe she has a good reason for it.”

 

“Whatever it is,” Cisco says. “We're gonna find out. Okay? You don't have to do this alone.”

 

“Maybe I should have told you the first time this happened,” Hartley says.

 

“Maybe,” Cisco says with a small smile.

 

After breakfast Cisco keeps throwing glances at Hartley's DVD shelf until Hartley sighs and gestures for Cisco to take a seat on the couch.

 

Cisco complies but holds out his hands. “Can I touch it?” Hartley snorts and hands him the Star Trek collectors edition while he turns on the TV. Cisco runs his fingers over the shiny box set. “It's beautiful.”

 

“Oh my god,” Hartley says under his breath. He has fallen in love with the biggest nerd on this hemisphere.

 

“What do you wanna watch?” He asks.

 

“Let's start from the beginning,” Cisco says and their fingers touch when he hands Hartley the DVD.

 

“Alright,” Hartley says and starts the episode.

 

When he sits down on the couch Cisco frowns at him. He raises his arm, offering Hartley to slide closer.

 

“So we're really doing this?” Hartley asks as he tries to get comfortable under Cisco's arm. It feels awkward.

 

“Yeah, we are,” Cisco confirms. After a moment of consideration he presses a kiss to Hartley's head.

 

Hartley lets his head drop against Cisco's shoulder. He smells really nice. “You're ruining me for anyone else, you know that?”

 

Cisco shushes him, laughter in his voice.

 

“I'm totally gonna try to make out with you in two episodes,” Hartley mutters against Cisco's shirt.

 

“Cool by me,” Cisco says, tangling his fingers in Hartley's hair.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this story didn't turn out the way i planned it at all but i still adore it. there is still a lot to resolve and explore but i think this is a good ending point for now.


End file.
